


For a good time, call

by VerdantMoth



Series: for a good time [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Masturbation, No Underage Sex, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 08:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17545787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Sometimes Peter calls him because he just passed a birthday party and the dad swings his son up on his shoulders, or it’s too early in the morning for ice cream but a mother is crooning his old lullaby to a sniffling infant on a fire escape. Mr. Stark is quiet then. Peter can hear him putting down tools and coffee cups and paperwork.





	For a good time, call

Ned and MJ are entirely to blame for Peter’s current predicament. That is one hundred percent the defense he’s gonna use in court, or like, in the face of God when he dies. ‘Cause see, Peter didn’t used to _do_ this kind of stuff. Like, yeah sometimes he cuts class to get an exclusive comic, and once, _one time_ , he blew a lab up when he and Ned were [redacted per court order], but for the most part he’s _Peter Parker._ He’s a good kid.

Now though, he’s got one fist in his mouth and one on his cock and a phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, and only the vaguest idea how he got there.

“C’mon kid, don’t be shy,” Mr. Stark croons in his ear. “You know I like to hear your whine.”

Peter moves his hand, too fast and not tight enough, and moves his slobbery hand to his sheet. He rewards Mr. Stark with a noise that comes from somewhere deep inside of him, and begs, “Please?”

On the other end he can hear the chink of a spoon against china and can half imagine Mr. Stark standing in his kitchen lazily stirring his coffee as he listens to Peter. He twitches against his bed, twist his hand around the head of his prick, and tries to slow his breathing.

Mr. Stark must hear his desperation, (Peter’s convinced he’s got his phone hooked up to a speaker), because he makes a small noise and says, “Yeah go ahead. But only because you've been so good.”

Peter doesn’t even change his strokes. Mr. Stark’s purred promise has him coming against his chest, body spasming and the anticipation beating in his chest.

His sheets have never been so clean.

\---

It starts on his birthday, as all good affairs do. MJ seats herself and their table and slides an envelope across the way one might pass over drugs. Not that Peter has ever accepted drugs, but he did see a trade go down once, when he went to get milk late.

But she slides them an envelope ready to burst and they stare at her in confusion. Ned speaks first, and enthusiastically. “Why are you sitting here.”

Peter glances at him, “Question marks, Ned. But seconded. Why are you at our table?”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Happy sixteenth Petey. Mulligan’s Bar, on fourth Avenue and Ninth Street. 7 pm and don’t be late.” She leaves as spontaneously as she’d arrived, the envelope still ticking on the table.

They don’t open it until last period, and two ID’s fall out. Peter is confused to see his own face staring at him. In fact, it could be his license, save for the year at the end of his birthday.

By the beam on Ned’s face he thinks his friend’s got a matching card.

“No,” Peter says immediately.

“Yes,” Ned replies, and he’s got that grin that means they’re going to end up in a lab with smoke in their faces.

Peter sighs, a long a put upon noise that has the teacher calling his name. He stutters out an answer and shoves the card into his pocket. He’s already banking on Aunt May being his out for this particular delinquency.

\---

Aunt May is a traitor and Peter will never forget this. She smiles at him, blowing hair out of her face as she hands him a small wrapped package. “You’re little girlfriend already told me you’d be out with her tonight. I told her not to keep you out too late but I figure you’ll just crash at Ned’s anyway.” She presses a ruby kiss to his cheek and tucks her keys into her pocket. “It’s for the best really, since I have a shift tonight. But happy Sixteenth, Peter.”

Her eyes go misty the way they do anytime he hits a milestone and Peter pulls her close. She’s about as tall as him now, but he still tucks his head under her chin and breaths in the smell of laundry detergent and peroxide. “Have fun Peter.”

“Love you too, Aunt May.”

Ned barges in as Aunt May slips out and Peter sighs heavily, pocketing the silver wrapped package. “We are going to get arrested,” Peter grouses.

“It’ll be one for the yearbook!” Ned answers.

\---

Mulligan’s is smokey and seedy and crowded. Peter almost wets himself at the size of the bouncer, who doesn’t even _look_ at their ID’s before waving them in.

“I’m just saying!” Ned snarks. “$20 cover fee? She could have warned us.”

“Shut up Ned. I paid it,” Peter sighs. He’s also a little annoyed at the price, but he’s more concerned about peering over the crowd trying to locate MJ.

She’s a little magic though, because suddenly there’s a hand on his and Ned’s shoulders and they both about jump out of their pants.

MJ laughs and steps back. She holds up her phone. “7.10. Thought I said don’t be late.”

“And I thought I was turning 16, not 19.” Peter crosses his arms nervously but Ned just knocks his shoulder.

“This place is great!” His friend bellows. MJ and Peter both glance around but it’s so loud he got away with it

MJ flips her hair over her shoulder and pulls them along. “Don’t be a baby, Peter. At least I didn’t go for 21. Besides, this place has live music on the weekends at it’s an 18 plus bar. Live a little!”

Peter grouses at her, annoyed by Ned’s enthusiasm and the sticky air of the bar and MJ’s… whatever this is. “What are you getting out of this?”

She smirks at him and pushes him into a booth. “Oh Petey. I get the pleasure of watching you squirm!”

Ned snorts as he plops down next to her, jostling her a bit. “Yeah Petey, squirm.” They both have this glint in their eyes that makes Peter uncomfortable. He’s never believed in psychics, but he’s got this sudden feeling, a bit like a premonition, that MJ and Ned are about to embark on the kind of friendship that involves secret bases and ruining his life.

He’s also got the distinct impression he has very little choice, so he slinks down into his seat at sticks the string of his hoodie into his mouth.

\---

It’s almost midnight, and he has to _pee_. MJ is definitely magic. They haven’t paid for a single drink and he’s watched her dismiss men left and right. Somehow she comes back with three sodas and once even snacks.

But it’s almost midnight and he’s listened to three cover bands and an accordian and downed more Dr. Pibbs than he has the whole rest of the month. “Okay, I have gotta go _now,_ ” he’s not even ashamed of the whine.

Ned nods. “Same.”

Peter doesn’t even roll his eyes. He’s two breaths away from holding his crotch as he shoves his way through the thickening crowd. By the time he makes it to the bathroom his eyes are watering and he has his jeans bunched in his fist.

The bathroom is, _thank God_ , empty and he makes a beeline for the fifth urinal. He’s not entirely sure he’s totally made it but he sighs in relief when he hears the liquid hit the porcelain. By the time he’s lucid again, he realises he’s been staring at a string of numbers.

It takes him to the end to realize its a _phone number._ “Weirdos,” he mumbles.

Ned appears, a bit like MJ, (is magic talent contagious?) and says “you should call ‘em!”

Peter jumps to zip himself up. “What? No! They’re probably a dealer or something!”

Ned shakes his head and points at the area-code. “Nu-uh Peter. That’s rich peoples area code.”

Peter cuts his eyes at Ned, unsure he wants to know how he knows that. “C’mon, we gotta get back to MJ.”

Ned shrugs but follows him back out. MJ sits at the table with three more sodas and that damn smirk. “Have fun boys?”

“Peter found a number on the wall but he’s too chicken to call it,” Ned announces.

Peter groans. “It was written on the wall! Of course I’m not going to call the bathroom-wall number!”

MJ sits up straight and she’s got a gleam in her eyes that makes Peter’s skin crawl. “What’s the number, Petey boy?”

Peter narrows his eyes. “I didn’t write it down.”

Ned slides a scrap of paper across the table and shrugs at Peter. “You took a long time.”

MJ snaps her fingers. “Pass me his phone too, would you?”

Ned wrestles the device from Peter’s pocket before he can protest and MJ punches the numbers in then hands the phone ot Peter.

“What? No, I-”

But the phone is ringing in his ear and then he hears, “This better be damn important since it’s after midnight.”

Once, when he was younger, he’d been up late watching something. All he remembers is a woman saying “his voice is like sex, but better.” He hadn’t understood at the time, but now?

“Are you even there? Christ, don’t tell me this is another asshole from Mulligan’s. You really called a number off the bathroom wall?”

Peter can feel his face turning red, but more importantly he crosses his legs. “I’m real sorry, sir! It’s my birthday and my friends are real jerks and I’m so sorry I woke you!”

There’s a long moment of silence and Peter thinks they guy has hung up and then he hears a sigh he feels all the way down to his toes. “You didn’t wake me. I was working.”

Peter nods, and then remembers that the man can’t see him. “Oh. Well, uh, sorry we woke you, Mr. It won’t happen again.” Disappointment crashes through Peter, and so does shame, but he can’t really explain either of them.

“How old?” There’s a small trace of impatience, but mostly that same distraction Aunt May uses when she’s curious but also trying not to burn dinner.

“‘M Sorry?” Peter mumbles.

“Speak up, kid. How old you turning? You said it’s your birthday right?”

Peter chews his lips for a moment and then looks at his friends. Ned’s distracted by the chips and MJ just looks gleeful. “Nineteen.” His voice cracks and he blushes.

“Uh huh.” The voice says. “Well, Mulligan’s is eighteen plus. But I also know Buck the bartender doesn’t really check them. What are you fourteen?”

“Sixteen!” Peter huffs out.

It earns him a laugh. Small at first, then building into the kind of belly bouncing laughter adults don’t usually do. “Okay kid. Sixteen. It’s past your bedtime though, isn’t it?”

“Past most people’s bedtimes,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well, have a nice night, kid. Enjoy your birthday and don’t stay out too late.”

The phone cuts out in his ear and Peter isn’t exactly religious but he’s pretty sure that was a holy encounter. MJ stares at him with that all knowing look. “Good conversation?”

He makes a face at her and chugs the rest of his Mr. Pibb.

\---

The thing is, he can’t forget the voice. It haunts his dreams, both day and night, and distracts him even when it’s not ringing in his ears.

It’s hard to explain the weird, smokey-smooth quality of the voice. Not baritone deep but certainly a man’s voice, laced with a sort of condescending amusement that shouldn’t affect Peter the way it does, but he finds his fingers itching to redial it.

It’s weird. Like… like, an impulse he can’t control.

He doesn’t call the number. Not for two whole weeks and somewhere out there an angel gives him a C+ on his self-control report card.

“Stark Resident,” the voice answers. Peter’s heard that kinda perky before.

“‘M I in trouble already?” It comes out softer than he means.

“Mulligan’s kid? Didn’t think you’d call back.” That is definitely amusement in Mr. Stark’s voice.

Peter hasn’t got an answer for him. “How’d your number end up above a urinal anyway?” He grouses.

Something crashes on the other end, and he hears a muttered curse, some rustling. “I’ve got shitty friends, kid, that’s how.”

Peter snorts, “yeah, I know shitty friends.”

“Oh?”

He’s not sure why, but he trust the smokey-smooth voice so he finds himself blurting, “I mean, they con me into calling toilet numbers after sneaking me into a bar!”

Laughter bubbles in his ears and his stomach flips and there’s a weird warmth in his groin. “That doesn’t sound so bad, kid. Sounds like a real party, actually.”

“Toilet number and $20 cover fee,” Peter says. “Well, $40 really. My friend forgot his wallet.”

“And you paid for him, on your birthday?”

“Well, yeah,” Peter answers. “I wasn’t going in alone and I couldn’t leave him outside.”

“Well,” and Mr. Stark is definitely mocking him a little and, oh dear god, he should not be this excited by it. “Aren’t you a real pal?”

Peter is pouting. He knows it, and he’s a little embarrassed about it, but mostly he’s just pulling the thread Aunt May fixed last month back out. “Yeah, well, who needs you anyway.”

“You called me, kiddo.”

“My mistake,” he’s going to hang up, really, but something makes him pause.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s been a long day. And also I didn’t really plan on a second bathroom booty call.”

Peter splutters and drops his phone, then has to scramble for it. “That’s not- what are you-?”

He can hear something metal and heavy being laid down. “You really don’t know why a man might have his number scrawled above a urinal in a seedy bar, do you?”

Peter shrugs, afraid to answer.

“Okay, I’m going to let you in on a very adult secret. If you find a number in a bathroom, and you call it, you’re either looking for sex, drugs, or both.”

“Yeah? And what are you if you’re number is written there?” Peter demands.

“Like I said. A guy with shitty friends.”

Peter hangs up this time, and swears it’s the last conversation. But his thumb hovers above the delete button and doesn’t press it.

\---

He never exactly means to call Mr. Stark. But somehow he finds himself telling the older man about his frustrations in science as he shops for Aunt May, or bemoaning his single status while his prototype explodes in his face at two am.

Mr. Stark usually has advice on how to fix the gadget in his hands, and an explanation for why his physics is broken, but he rarely does more than laugh at Peter’s romance woes.

He laughs, and Peter doesn’t quit jizz his own pants but it’s a damn near thing.

Sometimes Peter calls him because he just passed a birthday party and the dad swings his son up on his shoulders, or it’s too early in the morning for ice cream but a mother is crooning his old lullaby to a sniffling infant on a fire escape. Mr. Stark is quiet then. Peter can hear him putting down tools and coffee cups and paperwork.

“I didn’t really get along with my dad, kid,” he’ll whisper, and “my mom always smelled like cotton and petunias and I never did find out why.”

Peter and Mr. Stark are usually quiet after those confessions. They listen to each other breath until one of them, usually Peter, falls asleep.

He doesn’t call for at least a week after conversations like those.

\---

The first time Peter moans over the phone, it really has nothing to do with sex. It’s just, winter has come, angry and spiteful, and he’s sitting out on the metal ladder watching the flurries. Aunt May is making cookies and he’s telling Mr. Stark useless factoids about the relationship between human and spider cells and it’s _fucking cold_.

He shivers, reaching for the cocoa she left on his desk and a blanket and when the first sip of steaming liquid passes his lips it’s _better than sex._

Over the phone he can hear something shattering, and a muttered curse. ”Damn kid.” It comes out so strained Peter sits up.

“Mr. Stark? Are you okay?” He says it quiet and rushed, but doesn’t get an answer. “Mr. Stark, sir?”

That earns him a grunt he feels in his toes. “Kid. What on earth are you doing?” Mr. Stark huffs at him.

“Sitting outside drinking cayenne cocoa,” Peter numbest.

“It’s snowing. Are you at least dressed decently?” Mr. Stark sighs.

Peter, for the most part, makes good choices in life. But he’s cold and his brain is a little frozen so what he says is, “Well that depends on how you want me to be dressed.”

Peter obviously isn’t in Mr. Stark’s workshop, but he doesn’t need to be to recognize the deep groan drawn out over the line. “You really ought to be careful the things you say, cause you’re putting some pretty images in a grown man’s head.”

Peter bites his lips for a moment and then hangs up. He clutches the phone in his hand for a long moment, then carefully puts the cocoa back inside the window and sets his blanket down on the ledge.

It’s a little grey out, but no one is around to watch him peel his coat off, his pants, or laugh as he snaps a photo of himself backlight by the sun and shivering in the cold.

He sends the photo and then climbs back into his room, flipping onto his bed and groaning into his pillow.

He isn’t expecting it, so when his phone rings in his hand he shrieks and jumps halfway to the ceiling.

He answers with shake hands and a swirling stomach.

“God, kid. Trying to give yourself pneumonia?” Mr. Stark sounds like he wants to be chiding him, but there’s a heavy layer of admiration in his voice that gives Peter courage.

“No, but I could use some warming up…” he says with a shiver.

He’s not entirely certain but he thinks he hears Mr. Stark swallowing. “Gonna be the death of both of us kid.”

“Yeah?” Peter ask.

Mr. Stark hangs up this time, and a wave of disappointment nearly drowns Peter. But then his phone chimes and he’s staring at a picture of a man with a cut jaw, sharp beard, and piercing yes.

 _Yeah,_ the attached message reads.

 

\---

Phone sex doesn’t work like Peter expected. At first it’s a lot of false starts and awkward lines until Mr. Stark says, “Dammit, Peter, stop thinking and just do what I tell you!”

“Yes, sir!” Peter squeaks out and it seems to work for both of them.

Turns out Mr. Stark is a bit of a sadist, and Peter thrives on it. “Got it tied snuggly?” He croons in Peter’s war.

Peter studies the string around his balls, cheeks and chest flushed with embarrassment even though he is alone. “Yes, sir.” He wiggles the ends a little, grunting as he jostles himself.

“What color?” Mr. Stark demands.

“Red, with the tiny bits of gold in it,” Peter says. He can hear Mr. Stark shifting, hear the sound of fabric against skin and he imagines the shirt sliding over broad shoulders.

“Gonna send me a picture?” There’s laughter in the question that burns behind Peter’s ears. Mr. Stark knows how he feels about those, which makes him all the happier to request them. But Peter obliges, carefully snapping a photo of his cock, tied up and weeping, and sends it.

He knows when it’s received by the sharp intake of breath, the uncapping of a bottle and the squelch of what can only be lube. “Good, kid. Real good. Gonna leave it like that the whole time.”

Peter keens but doesn't argue.

“Got the present I sent you ready?”

Peter holds the synthetic cock in his hand, studying the lifelike details of it. He’s never asked, but he thinks it might be an actual replica. “Yeah.”

“Did you do what I asked you to last night?”

Peter clenches his ass, feels the plug shifting. “It’s not easy getting through gym with a silver plug up my ass, you know,” he mutters.

Mr. Stark chuckles in his ear. “Probably not. But you’ll thank me in a minute. Take it out, now, smooth and careful.”

Peter does, fingers wrapping around the base and pulling slowly, whining. When it comes out with a pop he can’t help the noise of displeasure he lets out. It’s strange, being empty all of a sudden. Like he’s missing some vital piece of him.

“I know, I know,” Mr. Stark whispers in his ear. “My boy feels all empty. But we’re going to fix that. How are we going to fix that, hmm baby?”

Peter swallows around his embarrassment. “With the other toy, sir.”

“That’s right, now go ahead.”

Peter holds the thing in one hand and balances his phone in the other. It’s never easy, working a seven inch thing inside his ass with one hand, especially since he’s rarely allowed to lube it, but he braces his feet against his bed and arches his hips up. _God_ , but if this is an exact replica, Mr. Stark is thick.

He whines, pants, and jerks, trying to get the angle right. “It’s not gonna fit,” he complains, panting.

“Yeah it will. I know you can do this. How far are you?” Mr. Stark sounds a little breathless, and Peter hears a zipper.

He can’t see it from this angle, but based solely on the over-full feeling, he tells him, “Ah- maybe two-thirds of the way.”  His thighs are trembling, and his arm aches a little from the angle but when he lets his hips fall it causes the toy to shift, to hit some places inside of him and he groans, his whole body shaking.

“That’s a good boy,” Mr. Stark pants in his ear. “But you’re not quite done. You can do this.”

Peter shifts, arches his back and pushes. His chest heaves and he can’t even explain the weird punches out noises he’s making but when he _finally_ feels the base of the toy he nearly weeps.

Mr. Stark whispers praises, staticky and breathy into his ear. “Yeah, that’s my boy. Can you get a picture? I want to see.”

Peter does, though he’s not sure how.

“Video yourself, Peter. Let me watch you fuck yourself on it.”

Peter shudders, and it takes him several minutes to figure out how to angle his camera, how to sit up on his knees so the lights hits he’s lean body just right. He stars over his shoulder, one hand wrapped tight around his aching cock as his slides up and down the toy, trying to balance himself on the wobble thing and his soft bed.

“That’s it, so beautiful,” Mr. Stark signs over the line.

Peter thinks Mr. Stark might come before him, but it’s a close thing.

 

\---

 

“I want to meet you,” Peter blurts out. He’s laying on his bed, sweaty and covered in spend, with a vibrator still buzzing next to him.

It’s quiet on the phone, and he’s afraid Mr. Stark has hung up. “I dunno kid, that seems like a disastrous idea.”

“Why?” Peter ask.

Mr. Stark doesn’t have a good answer. He never does when Peter announces his wish, all bone-limp and relaxed after coming.

“I want to meet you, to touch you.” He doesn’t tell him how much he wants to kiss him, to hold his hand, to drink coffee from ridiculous China with him. But he thinks Mr. Stark hears it anyway.

“You’re so young, kid. You don’t really know what you want.” He’s got that dismissive tone he uses when he thinks Peter is being a child.

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” Peter says with as much sass as he can muster. “What’s really do different from doing this in person to doing this over the phone.”

“It just is, kid.” Mr. Stark snaps.

“That’s a bullshit answer and you know it,” Peter says. He’s angry now, phone clutched so tight his hand hurts. “I want you for real, or I don’t want you at all.”

Mr. Stark goes the kind of quiet that means Peter’s really done it. And he doesn’t think twisting himself into a pretzel and sucking his own dick is gonna make up for it.

He watches the minutes shift on the clock on his wall, and he’s thirty seconds from hanging up when Mr. Stark says, “well if we are gonna do this for real, you might as well call my Tony.”

Peter grins so hard his face hurts. “When?” He ask, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

“You turn 17 tomorrow, right?” Tony ask.

“Yeah,” Peter answers, surprised Tony remembers.

“Meet me at Mulligan’s. Don’t worry about going in though, I’ll pick you up.”

Peter smiles dumbly at his phone as he says “yeah, okay. I can do that.”

“And kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Wear the silver plug.”


End file.
